The Uniting of the Three
by alandava
Summary: The story of how Il Duce is reunited with his sons, told in three parts. Good, bad or indifferent, let me know what you think.
1. Chapter 1: The Hoag

They place him barefoot on the wheeled metal cart, his hands are cuffed before him and there are thick lengths of chain linking his hands and feet. On all floors of the prison, armed guards cock their rifles, eyes on the most bloodthirsty man the Hoag has ever known. A shiver of fear runs through one of the new guards. This is the first time he has ever seen in the flesh the one they call Il Duce. The Darkman, the Boogeyman, the one of which great tales have been reckoned. Tales enough to curdle even the bravest man's stomach.

An inmate at the Hoag since March 31, 1980, he is not known to have spoken a word in the eighteen years this penitentiary has held him. They do not even know his name. He is just prisoner 6570534. Suspected IRA, mafia assassin, his list of known hits a mile long. The ones they cannot confirm may be a mile longer. As they wheel him down the narrow corridor, shotguns aimed at his temples, mirrors peek out from between the iron bars of the holding cells. All eyes are on the monster. He must be twelve feet tall and breathe fire. Alas, he is just a man like any other. Another prisoner up for parole in the Hoag.

It is April the 5th 1998, and prisoner 6570534 is being escorted down to the jury room for a parole hearing. He wonders why they even bother with such nonsense. The Lord knows they will never let him out of here unless he is ensconced in a body bag. Twenty-five years to life is the sentence they gave him. He has no regrets or misgivings in regards to the crimes he committed. In his eyes, crimes is a misnomer. He knows the mission he was charged with by God himself.

_When I raise my flashing sword and my hand takes hold on judgment,_

_I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who haze me._

_Oh, Lord, raise me to Thy right hand and count me among __Thy saints._

_And I shall count thee among my favored sheep,_

_ and you shall have the __protection of all the angels in Heaven._

Although he accepts the divine power of God, he has had his moments while incarcerated, of wondering if this is what God had intended for him. Bestowing upon him the most noble of missions, and then locking him up in a penitentiary for nigh on twenty years. While there is so much work to be done, he sits inside his cell while his monumental skills fall by the wayside. Evidence in point, all the scum and filth that filter in and out of this very building every day. It is not his place though to question the ways of the Lord.

_Thy will be done._

They stop in the main antechamber just outside of the jury rooms. While his cart is placed in the center of the large room, a giant cage is slowly lowered over the metal platform upon which he stands. Trapped like a bird in a gilded cage, he is again moved forward and into the jury rooms.

He laughs to himself at all this precaution. Little do they know they have naught to fear from him. Innocent God-fearing men, women and children do not have to hide from his wrath. His mission only includes those that have fallen into sin and corruption. All the lives he has ever taken were taken because of an affront to God. God laid down his Commandments in the Bible and all people are expected to follow his edicts. If you stray from the path of the Lord, you may find your day of reckoning on Earth and not at the gates of Judgment.

With a resigned sigh, he raises his head and the hearing begins. He holds himself impassive, not really listening to the dialogue in front of him. The words are white noise as he takes in the faces of his parole panel. All four of them, three men and one woman, afraid to even make eye contact with him. Afraid of the evil they believe is sure to shine in his devil's eyes. He hears the words good behavior, rehabilitation, reformed and the next thing he knows is they are stamping his parole papers. Approved.

In the watery light of dawn on the morning of April the eighth, Il Duce is walking towards the outer gates of the Hoag with a security detail of no less than seven men. He is wearing his twenty-year-old army fatigues, a red sweatshirt and black boots.

The man who meets him at the gate is Giuseppi Yakavetta.


	2. Chapter 2: The Firefight

He is waiting on a sun-dappled street in suburban utopia. Waiting to exact a toll on an evil mongering man. He thinks to himself of the job he is to undertake today. One evil man using his ill-gotten gains to eliminate another evil man. There is a queer sense of justice in that the end justifies the means. It matters not to him whose money lines his pockets in order to exact God's will upon the filth of this Earth. What matters to him is that his mission has been resurrected. Like Jesus Christ died and rose again in order to wipe away our iniquities, he will also rise and rid the world of sin and the evil that men do. It is his calling. One once shared by his brother, but now his alone. A legacy handed down from his father and his father's father before him.

He waits in the street for his target to appear. The door slowly opens and three men file out. Oh well, he thinks to himself, 'What is six o' one, half dozen o' the other?' It is just three more defilers of God's will left unable to commit any more unspeakable atrocities.

With his grizzled head bowed, he looks up at the men filing out of the door from under his dark sunglasses. One man, disheveled and bloody, longhaired and bearded; his target, the package boy. The other two men walk behind him with a silent swagger, an indelible air of quiet confidence and purpose in their stride. They are wearing identical naval pea coats and dark sunglasses. Of like height and build, the sunlight glints off their heads, one light and one dark. A long held memory strikes him with a jolt he feels down to his toes. He remembers ruffling the hair upon two wee heads that barely reached him at mid-thigh, one light and one dark. Now is not the time to wallow in those maudlin memories. It's a shame, but it is time.

With a slight shake of his head to release to cobweb of recollection, he throws open his black trench coat to reveal a protective leather vest holding an impressive array of guns, assorted makes and styles, the tools of his trade. Clenching his cigar tightly between his teeth, he reaches down and withdraws the first two guns from their protective sheathes over his abdomen.

He watches with breath coiling tightly in his chest as the two men simultaneously draw their guns. It is like poetry as they aim their weapons over the shoulders of the third man who falls to his knees as he fumbles frantically for the firearm in the waistband of his cacks. Symmetry of movement, an almost feline grace, with guns seeming to be extensions of their hands, these men are truly a sight to behold. After an eternity of tension filled breaths, he begins to shoot. The lads immediately return fire. Bullets are flying everywhere, ricocheting off of cars, burrowing into the bark of trees, shattering windows and splintering wood. The acrid smell of gunpowder heavy in the air.

As he silently unleashes round after round, he muses to himself that watching these two men is like watching a film of his very own past. He and his brother perfectly attuned to one another, meting out the punishment decried by the Lord. An eerie sense of recognition overtakes him. Maybe. What if? How could it be? It is just not possible. But even so, he stays his hand. One of the greatest assassins the world has ever known empties the magazines of six guns and causes naught but minor wounds in three stationary targets. The coincidences cannot be ignored. His instincts, which very rarely fail him, cannot be ignored. Questions must be asked and answers rendered.

He turns amidst the smoke and the screams to disappear like a wraith down the tree-lined street


	3. Chapter 3: The Reunion

He knows the lads will be here tonight just as well as he knows his own name. It is what he would do if he were in their shoes. He is literally in the bushes as Yakavetta scurries out to his waiting car. He can smell the fear rolling off him in waves. 'He will reap his in the end,' he thinks to himself.

In the Don's urgency to escape, he mistakenly forgets to lock the front door. Il Duce lets himself in. As he cautiously saunters through the opulent house, he is careful to remain silent. He finds one clueless fool having a kip in a parlor chair guarding a hallway. He makes short work of him by garroting him with a stout length of silken rope lifted from the elaborate draperies.

As he turns to make his way down the deserted hallway, he hears the almost imperceptible report of a silenced gun and the sound of a dead man falling ignobly to the tiled floor. He quickly ducks to shield himself behind an open door when he spies a woman dressed all in black come from around the corner holding a gun. He has no other recourse but to come upon her from behind and knock her into unconsciousness with a well aimed elbow to the back of the head.

With a quick glance at his surroundings, he continues on his own down the hallway when it dead ends into a small sitting room with only one doorway. He slowly opens the ornately carved wooden door, which reveals a dimly lit passageway. He follows it until he finds an open door on his left hand side. He carefully turns the corner and peers into the room.

He sees the package boy seated lifeless on a metal chair, bloodied head thrown back, pristine copper pennies resting on his closed eyelids. His once white t-shirt is stained scarlet from an obviously mortal gunshot wound to his chest.

The two lads, once again identically kitted out in denims and black turtlenecks, sink to their knees in front of their fallen friend, bow their heads and begin to pray.

_"As Shepards we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee._

_Power hath descended forth from Thy hand…"_

As he hears these familiar words, a keening wail erupts in his head. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, these braw laddies are his very own. Under his standard they have raised their weapons and embraced his quest.

Pride such as he has never known rises within his breast. He goes to holster his gun at his side and while doing so, purposefully engages the safety. Instinctively, he knows his boyo's will not be careless. With only the slightest of glances into each other's eyes, they turn and draw their guns in unison. They hold their fire. Such magnificent men.

Bloody, beaten and proud, unashamed of their grief, they look to him. Closing the distance between them, he begins to pray again where they left off.

"…_that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command._

_So we shall flow a river forth unto Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be._

_In Nomine Patris, Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti."_

As he stands looking down upon his sons, stoic faces revealing none of their astonishment, he lifts his hands to lie upon their cheeks. One by one he raises their faces to his eyes.

Connor: hair the same shade as his beloved Annabelle and looking just as he did at that age.

Murphy: hair as black as his own once was with eyes as blue as the river Liffey. The same shade as Sibeal's own.

It is at this moment that he realizes his God is truly a just and loving God, and all is proceeding according to his plan.

_Never shall innocent blood be shed, yet the blood of the __wicked shall flow like a river. _

_The three shall spread their __blackened wings and be _

_the vengeful striking __Hammer of God._


End file.
